


Quote Love Unquote

by infinitevariety (disapparater)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), not completely soft but still mostly soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:20:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24929041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/infinitevariety
Summary: One year after the world didn’t end, Aziraphale is ready to tell Crowley how he feels. What he’s not ready to do is accept how Crowley feels about him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 66





	Quote Love Unquote

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Katie for the beta.  
> Title taken from and story inspired by ‘I Don't Believe You’ by The Magnetic Fields: [Read](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/magneticfields/idontbelieveyou.html) / [Listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z7yePNyz-nc)

“So, what do you fancy?”

Aziraphale looks up from his menu, the ‘ _You_ ’ on the tip of his tongue is swallowed down like an appetiser before it can escape his mouth.

“I was thinking the roast salsify and butternut squash gnocchi,” Aziraphale answers. “What about you, my dear?”

“One of the New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs,” says Crowley as he closes the wine menu.

A smile sneaks onto Aziraphale’s face because Crowley’s wine choice, as usual, compliments his own food choice perfectly.

“Wonderful,” replies Aziraphale. He notes the unusual stiffness in Crowley’s shoulders and has to ask, “Are you quite alright?”

“I’m dandy, angel, how are you?”

Despite Crowley's words, his tone is tighter and more clipped than normal and Aziraphale knows he is _not_ dandy. However, Aziraphale simply attributes it to the date.

“Also dandy, thank you.”

One year to the day since they watched a young boy and his friends take on the four horsemen and defeat Satan himself before swapping corporations and swindling their ex-sort-of-employers… why _wouldn’t_ they be dandy?

They’ve come to the Ritz, ostensibly to celebrate, although they’re here at least once every couple of month these days. So, yes, Crowley might be a little on edge due to this anniversary of sorts, but Aziraphale feels on edge because of what he’s decided to _do_ for this anniversary.

It’s slightly foolish, Aziraphale knows this. Nothing has really changed between them. Crowley pops into the bookshop at least once a day, staying for a drink and conversation more often than not. They’re no longer as careful and cryptic as they previously had to be, not constantly looking over their proverbial shoulders. But they still sit two feet apart on the bench in St James’s when they go to feed the ducks. Aziraphale still sits in his chair, rather than joining Crowley on the sofa in the bookshop. Crowley still goes home every night to sleep in his own bed rather than any other bed that might have been cleared of books and dusted.

Aziraphale doesn’t really expect anything to change. But it is also one year and one day since he’d stood on that bandstand and said some rather hurtful things. He wants to make up for that. He wants to sit in the Ritz and say some rather pleasant things. Wants to make it clear he never meant the hurtful things in the first place. Crowley deserves to know.

But Aziraphale is getting ahead of himself. First, they need to order. He puts down the menu and glances around for the waiter, who swiftly appears at their table.

“Hello,” coos Aziraphale, smiling up at the young man.

“Are you ready to order?” asks the waiter.

“Yes, please.” Aziraphale glances at the open menu in front of him. “I would like the roast salsify and butternut squash gnocchi, if you’d be so kind.”

“Of course.” The waiter makes a note on his pad before turning to Crowley. “And for you, sir?”

“A bottle of the Cloudy Bay Te Koko,” says Crowley without looking at the waiter. If the waiter has any thoughts about Crowley ordering wine but no food, he keeps them to himself.

“Very good.” The waiter makes another note and takes the wine menu Crowley holds up.

“Thank you _so_ much,” says Aziraphale, beaming up at the waiter in an effort to make up for Crowley’s brusqueness.

Crowley, sunglasses firmly in place, seems to be gazing off into the middle distance. Aziraphale fiddles with his place settings, adjusting the cake fork and serviette by unnecessary millimetres. His fingers twitch, sending his salad knife careening off the table. The commotion draws Crowley’s attention, his head slowly turning towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale closes his eyes, snatching his hands back to wring them in his lap.

This meal will be a disaster if Aziraphale doesn’t do it soon. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and opens his eyes. Before he can say anything, Crowley speaks.

“Angel, I have something I really need to say.”

“Oh, how fortuitous, I have something to tell you as well.”

“Okay, well, you first,” says Crowley

“No, no, it’s fine. After you, my dear.”

“Angel, really—”

“Crowley, I insist—”

“It’s not a problem—”

“Honestly, you should—”

“This is ridiculous—”

“Well why don’t we just—”

They’re still simply talking over each other when they both cry out:

“ _I love you!_ ”

The sudden silence reaches further than their table. In the awkward moments that follow, the gentle noise of cutlery and murmured conversation picks up around them. Still, they both remain quiet.

Aziraphale frowns down at the table, uncomprehending. Crowley _loves_ him? That seems… unlikely. His first instinct is to assume Crowley is making fun of Aziraphale’s feelings, but he can’t have even known about them until their clumsy joint confession. He looks up at Crowley. He’s back to staring into the middle distance, this time with a small crease in his brow. And who knows what his eyes are doing behind those blasted sunglasses.

“You _love_ me?” asks Crowley.

Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s focus shift to him, waiting for a response.

“Of course I do.” Isn’t it obvious? Hasn’t it been obvious for centuries? “Crowley, look at you. How could I not love you?”

Taking him literally, Crowley looks down at his own torso. When he looks back up at Aziraphale it is with a questioning pout. He holds his hands palms up and gives a small shrug.

“You’re the most dashing person I’ve ever known. In all your guises—human or otherwise. You take my breath away. Always have. How could I look at you and not fall in love?”

Crowley is shaking his head before Aziraphale is even finished.

“Of course I’m attractive, but that’s beside the point. Whether it’s true that I’m pleasant to look at or not doesn’t matter when you’ve not exactly got a track record of being honest with yourself.”

Now it’s Aziraphale’s turn to be puzzled. He pulls his head back, squinting a little at Crowley. The waiter arrives with their bottle of wine and pours them both a glass.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Aziraphale once the waiter leaves.

“Oh, come on, Aziraphale.” Crowley grabs up his glass, taking a gulp of wine. “You know exactly what I mean. Or are you fooling yourself about that, too?”

“I’m sure I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about.”

A burst of humourless laughter leaves Crowley’s throat as he puts his glass down heavily on the table.

“Fine, let’s start small,” says Crowley, raising a hand and holding out one finger. “Not acknowledging all the sinful things your favourite authors, composers, and artists have done to land themselves in Hell, so you can carry on enjoying their work guilt-free.”

A second finger is held up as the food arrives and is placed in front of Aziraphale.

“Conveniently forgetting gluttony is a sin.” Crowley’s two fingers point at the food on the table. He looks thoughtful for a second before adding, “And greed, actually—all those books you hoard.”

“Crowley, really.” Aziraphale huffs. He’s had plenty of comments about his eating habits over the years, but _never_ from Crowley.

“Fine, fine. Let’s move on to the things that actually matter… Heaven—” Another finger is counted off. “—and how they treated you like absolute shit for… literally ever. Heaven, and the fact they quite obviously lied to and manipulated you for… again, ever. _Heaven_ , and you convincing yourself they had all the answers when you must have known for millennia that they didn’t.”

Aziraphale would really rather not listen to this. He also doesn’t want to admit _why_ he doesn’t want to listen to this. He holds up a fork and opens his mouth, ready to protest.

“I’m not done,” interrupts Crowley before Aziraphale even gets a sound out. All five fingers on one hand are out and raised, so Crowley carries on counting with the fingers on the other. “The arrangement, and acting as though it was all just business and making out like you undertook it reluctantly. _Us_ —” Crowley draws a deep breath. “—and telling yourself we were ever only acquaintances, just _fraternising_ —not even friends.”

Any argument Aziraphale might have had flees his mind. Suddenly he feels like he’s back at the bandstand, words he doesn’t really mean leaving his mouth. He looks down at his plate and presses his lips together, unable to refute any of Crowley’s claims. Especially that last one.

“Even if—” Aziraphale starts. Stops. Looks up at Crowley. Starts again. “Even _if_ all that was true, it doesn’t mean what I’m saying now isn’t. I _love_ you, Crowley.”

“You might think you do, angel.” Crowley sighs, his focus lost somewhere over Aziraphale’s left shoulder. “But I don’t believe you.”

“Well—” Aziraphale blusters for a moment, taken aback. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You love _me?_ ”

Crowley’s attention snaps back to Aziraphale.

“Yes,” is Crowley’s simple answer.

“That hardly seems likely, my dear.”

The crease in Crowley’s brow is back, deeper than before.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“There’s no need for language like that, Crowley.” Aziraphale starts fiddling with his cutlery again, food all but forgotten.

“I think you’ll find there damn well is. How is it unlikely that I love you?”

“Well, I don’t mean to be derogatory, but you are a demon. Is it even possible for you to love?”

Crowley rubs at his eyes underneath his glasses before dropping both hands to his thighs.

“I’ve felt a lot of emotions in my long years, Aziraphale, felt a myriad of things for quite a number of people. Carried out an abundance of temptations and seductions, cultivated various relationships and friendships. Got to know a lot of humans in a lot of ways and felt a lot of things for them. There was this one guy, in Istanbul back in—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” interrupts Aziraphale, feeling faintly sick.

“The _point_ is, what I feel for you… it’s different. It’s more. It’s _love_ , angel.”

“I would really rather not be compared to your past work and… and… _nefarious deeds_.” Aziraphale clutches the napkin from his lap and dabs his mouth with it, despite not having taken a bite of food in several minutes. “Sexual deviancy and emotional manipulation. If _that’s_ what you’re putting next to… _whatever_ it is you feel for me, then I’m sorry, Crowley, I can’t accept that it’s love.” He sighs. “I don’t believe you, either.”

They fall silent for a tense moment.

“Well, shit,” is Crowley's only comment.

“Quite,” agrees Aziraphale.

The silence carries as Crowley refills both their glasses of wine and takes a drink. It carries as Aziraphale eats the rest of his now lukewarm meal. It carries as Aziraphale orders a single piece of chocolate cake, to takeaway. It carries as Crowley pays the bill.

Eventually, it’s broken.

“Lift home?”

Crowley says it so casually, as he’s putting his credit card away, but the words cause a twist in Aziraphale’s chest. He can’t know. Crowley doesn’t even believe him, so it’s impossible for him to know when Aziraphale fell in love. To know how those words would sting.

Aziraphale just nods, a tight smile pulling at his lips.

They’re taking the long way home, Aziraphale notes, as Crowley turns left away from Soho. Even the Bentley is uncharacteristically quiet, with no bebop blaring from the speakers. Aziraphale catches Crowley frowning down at the stereo, as if he was counting on it to break the silence.

The city whizzes by too fast as Aziraphale gazes out of the window, and he can’t even bring himself to berate Crowley about the speed. He grips the cake box on his lap as his mind drifts. Disappointment lies heavy in his stomach along with the roast salsify and butternut squash gnocchi—this was _not_ how this evening was supposed to go.

Before Aziraphale can get drawn too far into melancholy, he hears singing.

“ _When the moon was young, when the month was May, when the stage was hung for my holiday_...”

Aziraphale turns his head to see Crowley resolutely facing forward, hands on the steering wheel.

“ _I saw shining lights, but I never knew… they were you_.”

A genuine smile tugs at Aziraphale’s lips as he listens to Crowley’s only slightly off-key baritone rendition. He catches sight of Crowley glancing in his direction from the corner of his eye behind his sunglasses.

“ _They were you_.”

This isn’t the first time Crowley has sung for him, but it has been a good few decades since the last time. Aziraphale drinks it in.

“ _They were you_.”

Aziraphale is a sucker for a good musical (The Sound of Music notwithstanding), and Crowley knows it. He saw this one at the Apollo when it first came to London in 1961.

Crowley sings the entire song, and Aziraphale only has to surreptitiously wipe away a few errant tears. He suspects Crowley notices anyway.

The silence that follows Crowley’s song is a far more soft and comfortable one.

“That was wonderful, my dear, thank you.” Aziraphale’s voice is just above a whisper, but Crowley must hear it, even over the busy London traffic.

“Aziraphale, please—”

“You have a lovely voice and you’re an excellent performer, Crowley.” Aziraphale turns, looking back out of the window. “But a sweet song causing a few tears doesn’t prove anything. I still can’t believe that you—that you love me.”

Crowley doesn’t reply, but the car does start heading in the direction of Soho.

For five fast and silent minutes they drive, Aziraphale wringing his hands the entire time. When they pull up outside the bookshop Aziraphale wastes no time in trying to get back to relative normality.

“Coming in for a drink?” he asks.

“I don’t think that’s really...” Crowley trails off, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale waits until Crowley turns and looks at him. “We’ll be _fine_. We always are!” He beams a mild 60-watt smile. “A few drinks and some nonsensical conversation—we’ll both feel better in no time.”

There is such a slight shake of Crowley’s head that Aziraphale isn’t sure if he imagines it.

“This won’t get fixed so easily, angel.”

Aziraphale wiggles tensely in his seat. “Of course it will,” he insists. “What have a few bottles of good wine ever not solved?” Aziraphale claps his hands together, adding some energy and excitement to his words. “Drinks and conversation, you can even sleep on the sofa, if you want, and in the morning we can pick up some pastries and head to St James’s.” He finishes with a nod.

Crowley, his mouth a thin line and head tilted, still doesn’t look fully convinced.

“Come on, my dear, surely we can still enjoy each other’s company.” Aziraphale finally breaks out the big guns, letting his eyes go soft as he raises his eyebrows and lets his lower lips slip out just a fraction.

“Don’t!” cries Crowley, holding up a forefinger. “Don’t turn on the charm—it won’t work this time, I won’t let it.”

Wounded, Aziraphale can’t help but pout harder.

“You turn that shit on and off like a light switch—and not just to me, either. Could you have gushed any harder over the waiter earlier?”

“I certainly did not—”

“You _certainly_ did! Batting those eyelashes, cooing, and stunning him with that smile.”

“Crowley are you—are you _jealous?_ ”

“No.” Crowley shakes his head and easily dismisses Aziraphale’s question with an absent wave of his hand. “Of course not. Why would I be, anyway? Apparently I don’t love you.”

“Then why does it matter that I was polite to the waiter?”

“Because you weren’t just polite, Aziraphale. You went the extra angel-y mile. Big smile, wide eyes, soft voice. You’re good at telling people what they want to hear to get what you want.”

Aziraphale’s pout is long gone, the corners of his mouth now turn down. He can’t speak—doesn’t know what to say any more.

“You say we’ll be fine and have fun, but when the charm’s up that high, I’m not even sure you believe it. I certainly don’t.”

A prickling sensation is starting behind Aziraphale’s eyes. He bustles and mumbles sounds, turning and fumbling for the car door handle, needing to get away.

Crowley sighs. The car shifts slightly as he opens his own door and gets out of the driver’s seat. Before Aziraphale can manage the handle himself, his door is pulled open. Crowley stands there, elbow on the door frame and hip cocked.

“Guilt still works, apparently. Come on, Angel. What wine have you got?”

Aziraphale stands. He smiles tentatively and gives Crowley’s arm a light squeeze as he passes him. Crowley slams the car door shut, makes one of his unintelligible noises, and shoves his hands into his pockets.

Once inside the shop, Aziraphale barely stops to take off his coat, heading straight for the wine rack.

“Is a 1920s French Merlot okay with you?” he asks, thinking of the cake. He holds a bottle aloft and waves it a little.

“Sounds drinkable,” replies Crowley as he appears from the kitchen with two wine glasses.

They sit in their usual seats and go through their usual rituals—Aziraphale popping the cork, Crowley pouring the wine, both clinking their glasses. But it’s different. Aziraphale had wanted things to be a little different, after his planned confession of love. But not like this. He’d wanted comfort and touches and happiness. This is awkward and tense and _worse than before_.

After the first glass they loosen up a little. Aziraphale tells Crowley about a book he thought had been stolen in the 1880s that he found this morning while clearing out his desk, but how he has now lost three other books. Crowley tells Aziraphale about his downstairs neighbour jumping around to obnoxious exercise videos all night and then—completely unrelated, of course—getting stuck in the building’s lift for several hours the next afternoon.

After the first bottle the conversation is flowing much more easily. Aziraphale shares with Crowley all the greater London gossip that Madame Tracey has kept him abreast of recently, complete with his own scandalous gasps, dramatic chest clutches, and satisfied smirks. Crowley ushers Aziraphale over to sit beside him on the sofa, the better to show him Adam Young’s latest TikTok videos. They involve Adam cleaning a mirror and suddenly appearing made up in red face paint and horns, Pepper giving an impassioned lecture to a man in a car about littering, and Brian and Wensleydale doing a dance involving a lot of elaborate arm wiggling.

After two bottles they’re back on very old and familiar ground, arguing about who talked Henry VIII into essentially inventing divorce. Aziraphale is sure he did, in order to avoid the many tragic and unnecessary beheadings he foresaw in the future, even if he was only half successful in that. Crowley is convinced he did, for no other reason than making waves and causing splits within the catholic church—which he proudly claims he managed.

It is after four bottles that things change again.

Aziraphale is looking down into his almost empty drink, watching the wine flow around and climb the sides as he gently moves the glass, when Crowley speaks.

“I had a dream about you last night.”

The wine in Aziraphale’s glass is suddenly far less interesting. He looks up at Crowley, keeping his face as neutral as his inebriation will allow.

“Did you?”

“Hmm.”

Crowley is looking at Aziraphale, but his eyes—sunglasses discarded three bottles ago—are unfocused and don’t seem to be seeing him at all.

“What, erm, what happened? In your dream.”

Aziraphale drains the last of his wine. He regrets it immediately when he notices the bottle is empty. Now he has nothing to distract him.

“It wasn’t the kind of dream where anything really _happened_ ,” says Crowley. “More concipt— conpetu— con… abstract.”

“Mmm?” Aziraphale hopes the noise is enough to keep Crowley talking.

“Yeah. Mostly I remember… your eyes. Big, infinite pools of blue. They were looking at me. _Really_ looking. They _saw_ me. You know?”

Aziraphale nods, even though he’s fairly certain Crowley isn’t actually seeing him now, only remembering his dream.

“And there was this overwhelming feeling. It was everywhere, such warmth and safety and...”

“And?” whispered Aziraphale, afraid to break the moment.

“And love. In my dream, you loved me.”

“Crowley...” Less than a whisper this time.

Crowley’s far away unfocused look disappears. He shakes his head, actually looking at Aziraphale now, giving him one of his dry, cynical smiles.

“It was a nice dream, but not very realistic, yeah?”

“Why?” asks Aziraphale. “Why is the very idea of me loving you so unrealistic?”

Crowley’s smile turns small and sad, before disappearing entirely.

“I’ve spent 6,000 years being in love with you, angel. All those millennia with nary a hint that you felt the same way.”

“Now— No, there were hints, my dear. I definitely—”

“I didn’t see them. I didn’t _want_ to see them.”

Aziraphale’s face fell, sharp hurt and bitter vindication warring in his chest—Crowley _didn’t_ really love him.

“Not because I didn’t want you to love me,” Crowley rushes to say. “Because it was easier. If you loved me, but couldn’t admit it because we were being watched or because it wasn’t safe… or because you couldn’t bring yourself to admit you had feelings for a _demon_ …” Crowley sighed. “If I knew you loved me but we couldn’t act on it… that would be too painful. So I believed you didn’t love me—couldn’t love me.”

Crowley rubs his face with one hand and sighs before continuing.

“Demon, agent of hell, serpent of Eden, tempter of humans. No angel, especially not the best angel, could love that.”

They’re silent for a moment. Aziraphale letting Crowley’s words sink in. Realising what Crowley has denied himself all this time, in order to protect his own feelings. Aziraphale can’t help but huff a small laugh.

“You brilliant, gorgeous idiot.” Which isn’t what Aziraphale meant to say, but it’s out there now.

Crowley furrows his brow. “Thank you?”

“We’re both idiots, I think.”

“Well, that at least sounds plausible.”

“I kept quiet for so long, for so many reasons,” admits Aziraphale. “For your safety and my own safety. Because I never believed anything would be able to come of it… of _us_. Mostly I think I never really told you how I feel because, well, it took me so long to fully acknowledge it even to myself.”

Aziraphale notices his hands, wringing themselves in his lap, and moves them to rest on his knees.

“It has apparently taken even longer for me to acknowledge how you feel. I was confessing my feelings this evening for myself, never expecting to hear them reciprocated. And my instinct was to deny what you were telling me.”

His words are clumsy and awkward, Aziraphale knows. But it’s the best he can manage while sloshed and so helplessly in love.

“But I have to deny what you just told me even more vehemently. To not love you because you’re a demon? Poppycock. A demon is what you are, not _who_ you are. _Who_ you are balks at harming children, gets the most sinful enjoyment from harmless pranks, and is simply endlessly curious. _Who_ you are has shared meals with me for millennia even though you rarely eat, has cheated on coin tosses to give yourself the more dangerous assignments, and has brought me cups of hot cocoa every day for the past year despite how much ordering it must damage your cool and mysterious persona.”

Aziraphale words are making him brave, and he reaches his hands across the sofa to grasp Crowley’s. Crowley looks down at their hands passively while Aziraphale continues.

“All those things and more are who you are and why… why I love you.”

As he speaks, his hands tighten around Crowley’s instinctively, realisation dawning so bright he actually gasps.

“And all those things… the meals, the coin tosses, the cocoa, and everything else you do… you’ve done them all for so long because… because _you_ love _me_.”

A small smile creeps on to Crowley’s face as he squeezes Aziraphale’s hands right back.

“First of all, we _are_ both idiots. Brilliant, gorgeous, fucking idiots.”

“Agreed.” Aziraphale grins back at him. “And secondly?”

“Secondly… did you really just say ‘poppycock’?”

Aziraphale pulls a hand free from Crowley’s grasp and swats his arm with it as Crowley’s face creases with laughter.

“I thought you were going to tell me you love me again, now that I believe it!”

Crowley is still laughing.

“You _do_ , don’t you?” asks Aziraphale, suddenly needing the assurance.

Crowley nods. “I do.”

“You _love_ me.” Aziraphale’s words sound only half as awed as he feels.

“And you love me,” says Crowley quietly. “I believe it, now.”

They are quiet for a time, just looking at each other. _Loving_ each other. It’s all rather sweet, and Aziraphale thinks he might start glowing with happiness if he isn’t careful. But then how sweet the moment is reminds him of the box on the small table by the sofa. He leans forward, towards Crowley, whose arms open, but Aziraphale is already leaning right past them.

When he sits back up Crowley’s arms have fallen to his sides, empty, and he looks puzzled. Aziraphale holds up the box.

“I almost forget about the cake!”

In the end, they share it. Aziraphale holding a forkful up to Crowley for every three of his own, from his comfortable position in Crowley’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I'm working my way through The Magnetic Fields' back catalogue as inspo for ineffable husbands fic. Any requests, leave them in the comments!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/)!


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